Darkest Before Dawn (KGI series)(65)
“You’ll be aware enough to ask your questions,” came Hancock’s dry, emotionless response. “However, you will not be aware of your pain if I have anything to say about it.”
Since she well knew that implacable expression, she knew she wouldn’t have a choice regardless of what he decided to do to her.
Bitter defeat brought acid tears, stinging her eyelids like angry bees. Beside her, Hancock stiffened, and for a moment his hand hovered over her arm before settling there, his fingertips resting on her skin. She jerked back as if he’d burned her and huddled further inside herself, making herself as small as possible in a room filled with impossibly large men.
Hancock reached down to lift the hem of her pajama top even as he easily slid the band of her bottoms down just enough to bare her hip. Furious at how helpless she was—she felt—she lay there stoic, refusing to show them anything else. No more weaknesses to exploit.
She felt the first needle slide in, controlling her pained reaction as the medicine burned. She barely managed to prevent wincing in accordance with the involuntary flinch when Conrad’s hand pushed over the injection site and gently massaged the area to spread the medicine more quickly so the discomfort would abate sooner.
Then as if he hadn’t just touched her with tenderness she knew none of them possessed, he deftly inserted the second needle and administered what she assumed—hoped—was merely the antibiotic Hancock had insisted she be given.
She waited for betrayal. Waited for the dim awareness that a sedative would bring. The numbing of all her emotions until she drifted off into nothing more than a manageable vegetable, unable to resist whatever they chose to do.
But other than the fog of the pain medication, which was already doing its job of tamping down the pain—her physical pain—she felt no other indication that she was impaired.
Apparently Hancock was capable of keeping promises when it suited him.
He waited long moments, watching her with eyes that missed nothing before turning and dismissing the others. The only instructions he gave his men were, “Keep an eye on that bastard and make sure this doesn’t happen again.”
She was too tired and sick at heart to even attempt to consider what he meant by his cryptic demand.
As soon as his men left, leaving her alone with her betrayer, she gave him no chance to take over the situation. No chance to have the advantage, though she knew she in no way had any advantage in this situation.
“Why?” she asked in a deceptively soft voice.
She knew that her terrible rage simmered just below the surface, that it wouldn’t take much for it to erupt into something horrible.
Hancock sighed and put more distance between them, a small thing for her to be grateful for, but she could admit that his closeness only made her feel more trapped, more vulnerable, and if she was going to get through this, she needed any advantage she could gain.
“I’ve been working undercover a long time, Honor,” he said quietly, as if the walls themselves had ears and eyes.
Even as he spoke, he swiftly closed the distance between them once more, sliding onto the bed beside her, only this time settling himself to sit next to her, so both their backs rested against the pillows against the headboards.
“You weren’t my intended target. You merely became . . . collateral damage. An unavoidable sacrifice for the greater good.”
She made a low sound in her throat because he was subtly dancing around the issue when she wanted the straight, cold truth.
“I work for Bristow.” A cold smile twisted those ruthless lips. “Or so he’d like to believe. That I’m no threat to him. And that suits my purpose just fine. He’ll never know the truth until it’s too late.”
“He said you were adept at making people believe what you wanted them to,” she said in a detached tone. “Perhaps he knows more than you think.”
“Yes, he’s aware of my talent. He simply believes himself impervious. He’s wrong. I’ve been manipulating him since I came to work for him. I needed him only for the connection he has to a Russian named Maksimov. A man who has killed thousands upon thousands of innocent people. Women. Children. None of it matters to Maksimov. He’s unstoppable. I’ve twice been close to bringing him down and he slipped through my fingers. I won’t allow it a third time.”
She knew that she had everything to do with the confidence with which he spoke of taking him down this time. And it scared the living hell out of her.
“What could I possibly have that any of you want?” she asked scornfully, attempting to hide the paralyzing fear and sense of fatalism as she realized she was a much bigger piece of the overall picture. Perhaps the only piece that mattered now. She was completely bewildered as to how or why. She was insignificant. A nobody. How could she be so important to not one but three very powerful men—and organizations? She knew why A New Era wanted her. To save face. By why Bristow? And why this Maksimov?
She was trapped. She’d never go home. Never see her family again. Tears glittered in her vision, but she didn’t attempt to hold them back. She grieved for what could never be. For the loss of the one thing that had gotten her through so many long, painful days. Kept her going despite insurmountable odds. Hope. Hope that had been extinguished the minute Hancock revealed his cutting, impersonal betrayal. Without hope, there was only defeat. And . . . death.
Sorrowfully, she remembered that brief moment of weakness, when she had the knife in her hands and had contemplated ending it right then. And later, when she had obtained freedom from the rubble she’d been trapped in, her promise to kill herself before ever allowing A New Era the satisfaction of making her beg them for death. God, how she wished she’d given in to the impulse now. At least then she’d have the one thing that was now forever denied her. Peace.